professionals have standards

The crunch of fruit is sweet and crisp and entirely arrogant. A series of warnings whiz by unvoiced, lightning fast: He better pay for it. He better not waste it.

Resisting the urge to grind his teeth, he reminds himself to save it. Save it and just do his job tomorrow. Still against better judgement, he hears himself mutter bitterly at his basket as he retrieves it from the floor.

“Good.”

As much as he disliked the other sniper, he wasn’t incompetent. He should know to aim for the upper torso.

Good? Good? Had he missed the part where he’d made fun of him?

Mick almost scoffed at that, but decided against it- pieces of apple were in his mouth, for one, and he’d rather not risk spraying them everywhere like some uncivilised arsehole. He also didn’t want to seem sour that Cecil hadn’t took the bait in quite the way he wanted, either. 

Swallowing, he took another bite, thoughtful for a moment as he pondered what his next course of action should be.

“Y’know, if I’d been usin’ my bow an’ arrah, that arm would’ve pinned to the wall behind ya.”

His grip on the orange twitches at the memory. Getting a sniper round through the arm first thing in the morning was no walk in the park. Nor is getting stuck in the building because all the reasonable exits would be in the enemy’s line of sight.

Scowling, he resists the sudden urge to pitch fruit into that smug sniper’s face. He could hear the smile without looking up and it was infuriating enough just to know.

If it were anyone else he would say nothing and move on. There’s nothing to be gained by rising to roundabout gloating.

Setting what he wants into the basket at his feet, he straightens to walk away. The bitten out response is sour.

“Y’missed.”

He knew it had worked. The fact he’d retorted was proof of that. The BLU Sniper wanted to act like he was above it all but, like hell he was. So when he stepped away, Mick felt a small twinge of irritation too, not appreciating that he was attempting to get the last word in before getting on with his day.

“I missed, did I? Well... thought I’d take a take a leaf out of your book, y’know. I was inspired by your tactic of never bein’ able to land a proper shot above the neck.”

He just stares, stony-faced. There was no point dignifying that with a response.

The chicken scratch had taken a while for Sniper to properly decipher, but he recognized the handwriting to be that of Medic’s; no one on the base had writing that illegible, save for Scout, but this seemed to form a proper sentence so that ruled the Bostonian out right off the bat.

“Well, look at that, Hooty.” He said with a grin, comparing the sketches to the real owl in front of him, who blinked up at his owner with a slightly sleepy expression. “Ain’t that nice? Accurate, too... Really captured your likeness, there.” 

Mick had been falling asleep; as he was known to do during afternoons in the base when the rec room was quiet. Despite almost being completely out of it, he felt the light sensation his sunglasses being slid down the bridge of his nose, and after a moment, blinked awake to see that the Engineer was wearing them now, instead of his usual goggles.

The sight, in his drowsy state, made him chuckle.

“Alright.” 

He’d not expected him to actually listen to his request, which had come out in a moment of desperate frustration. Already, he’d been injured, and as he was about to see to it...  this joker decided to come around and introduce himself; albeit silently and with the serrated edges of a kukri, but, stil. Wouldn’t be able to give his all into this little battle if he was already injured now, would he? 

“You must be the BLU Sniper; been wonderin’ about you. Nice t’finally meet’cha in person.” Backing up slowly, like one would when trying to keep a snarling dog from full on mauling them, he made his way to a nearby first aid kit that lay at his feet, not daring to take his eyes off his quarry for even a moment. “No, I’m serious! Not met many other snipers in my time; or if I have, they usually keep it quiet.” 

With a nudge of his foot, the health pack opened, a small trail of vapour similar to the type their doctor’s Medi Gun gave off, fixing the wound right up in a matter of seconds. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and then pulled out his kukri. 

“Now we can get down to business.”

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